Black Sheets
by ScarletVampyre
Summary: Because perhaps it is not such a shattering play of events at all, perhaps it is more a quiet stumbling into things that cannot be fought. SiriusRegulus. Slash, incest.


**A/N:** Ohmigosh my first Blackcest! -flail- Ahem. Reggie is just such a darling and i cannot express how disappointed i am that he was not murdered by Death Eaters and was instead dragged off by _slimy corpses_. Hmph.

**Warnings:** Slash (i'm allergic to het) and incest and i suppose if we're sticking to canon, Sirius is still at home and so around 16 and that makes Reggie really very young. But hush, we'll disregard that bit.

**Because perhaps it is not such a shattering play of events after all, perhaps it is more a quiet stumbling into things that cannot be fought.**

**Black Sheets**

Silver moonlight spills across black sheets, a splash of brightness on dark canvas and you watch it ripple and morph as you lie waiting. There is no green, traitors and envy and pure bloods, and you are glad. You wonder if he would still come if there was green because it is the wrong colour, he is not such things, he is red, loyalty and passion and love. But no, you are wrong you are both black; Black hair Black blood Black fire. Perhaps, you wonder, your heart is black. Perhaps your veins are blackened and sooty like the coals in the drawing room grate that always smudge across your palms when you touch them (just because you want to know what black feels like, wonder if it feels the same as the Black that steals the night and makes you burn a bizarre contrary of white, blind white) and leave a trail of fingerprints dancing across the hearth. Perhaps your blood is thickened, viscosity aided by the weighty pressure of things tainted and cruel. Mother has told you many times of the value of your blood, she calls it _pure_ and you wonder if that means the flow is difficult because you sometimes fancy you can feel your heart about to explode. And your heart, perhaps your heart is-

But oh, the door creaks and the time for thinking such things is passed, the moments flitted away like the trembling wings of the moths that beat against the windows on summer nights when the air is sweetened almost cloyingly with the heavy scent of the roses that grow in the garden (and you do not begrudge the fluttering insects for demanding entrance, for what a living this is! Although, you do sometimes wonder if, should they ever be permitted inside, they would only dash themselves upon the glass until they were but a bloody smear craving freedom). Flitted away, only to return later, _later_, afterwards when the seconds thought previous to be meagre twitches of the clock's fingers stretch to a yawning scope of endless time in which you slowly grow cold.

The door creaks the floorboards creak the bed creaks, such small insignificant sounds that belie the enormity of what is inevitably going to pass, so vastly unapt you almost wish there was a loud chorus of crashing notes and reverberating crescendos to be a darkly colourful reflection of the violent thrum of back blood and the pounding of that twisted heart. But then, perhaps it is not such a shattering play of events at all, perhaps it is more like the subtle shift of seasons, a quiet stumbling into things that cannot be fought and that will always independently devise a way to unfold, leaving one powerless but to surrender heart and soul into compliance.

The silk of the black sheets is cool as it sifts over the bare skin of your narrow chest and it folds like liquid when he tugs and slides into the bed beside you. He murmurs your name, cropping it to a contraction that recalls the lost simplicity of years before when whispering secrets did not involve lips brushing against necks and play fighting did not lead to frantic writhing with damp trousers tangled around knees. His hands move carefully over your body, pressing against the hollow of spine and tracing the jut of collarbone, and you know he's taking care of you, looking after you with delicate fingers and soft mouth, treating you like porcelain. (That is, if he treated porcelain or such things with any amount of veneration; you have seen him carelessly toying with the family valuables in the parlour, always to leave a smudged print of fingers, so unlike the hushed reverence he silently speaks of now with his hand slowly stroking up the back of your thigh.)

His mouth opens over yours in a hot slickness of teeth and tongue and he begins the slow learning that is dedicated to the night, a remembrance of your body in which he relearns the angles and curves while teaching you the secret places you never before knew; the soft skin below your ear, the sensitive crease behind your knee, that obscure spot between your legs you were ignorant of before he pressed his fingers to, first his fingers and then something more, so much more. He teaches you with a steady rhythm that somehow seems to flow from his fingers in a lulling stream and marginally hinders the ragged pattern of your lungs awkwardly gasping until you are almost able to breathe again, though only ever almost, because you covet the burning of your raw throat when you suck in irregular rasps of oxygen, feeding the ravenous flames centred in your heart in a painful manner that makes your chest itch inside and scratches like the bristling carpet in the dining room that always prickles against your bare feet. It is a desire borne of the same thing that makes you count the round bruises on your throat in the wavering moments before dawn, when the sky is in turmoil of deciding the time and light is at once weak and bright, it is what has you praying for his fingers to leave scratches across your white skin just so there is something that can serve as proof to the tangled web of brothers and black sheets, something more than your hoarse breaths that quietly seep into the walls to become nothing more than weightless echoes.

It is at the moment when he pulls gently on your pyjama bottoms that the dull roar at the back of your mind takes up the rhythmic beat of a heavy pounding that resonates in your ears and chest and veins and drowns out the wanton gasps that tumble from your lips and spill across the bed, like the leaves you like to watch tumbling from the dying trees in Autumn, nose pressed to glass and outside crisp golden drifting in abundance. (Sometimes you step barefoot into the garden and trace the curled shells of the leaves because you want to know if that is what death feels like or if death is the white hot moment of blindness when he is between your thighs and you can remember nothing and you feel only the abrupt halt of your heart and know you are dying. You wonder if the leaves know they are dying; you wonder if it feels as good for them.) This is where the pace falls out of sync and the steady beat loses rhythm, everything crumbles to the naked bones of rushed fumbling and the push of slicked fingers and there is the brief whisper of kisses on your throat before a desperate shift and then he's there, _right there_, and then-

The sudden still. The earth stops spinning and the entire being of the universe ceases to exist, everything tears apart and perhaps, perhaps you are dying _now_, perhaps in this hushed moment of limbo with the silence screaming in your ears and your breathing suspended you will simply fall away. But he presses his mouth to your jaw and whispers to you, _Little Brother_, and it may be a horrific thing to emphasise at such a moment but to you it sounds beautiful, and the low drag of his voice brings the world back into being with a sharp clarity that bursts behind your eyelids in violent colour and rips a harsh cry from your reddened lips as he starts to move inside you.

And then it is a well-known dance. It is the rehearsed movement of skin against skin and the clash of rough moans and stuttering whimpers and then the cresting of pleasure as your body races headlong into completion and it is black blood and trembling moths and lost time and falling leaves and death. And it is perfect. It is what you were intended to be, what you were made for, the reason you are here you are sure.

He covers you with his shaking body and you breathlessly wait for the room to stop spinning. There is the familiar hitch of him pulling out of your body and the easy slide into curling up in his arms and again the coolness of sheets, though now the black silk is sweat-dampened and sticky, and the soft stroke of fingers in your hair and brush of lips against your forehead because he is still taking care of you, still treating you as though you may break. Perhaps, you wonder, you _will_ break, perhaps, with your black heart and tainted blood, you will shatter and fall apart. Perhaps every time he creeps into your room when the sky is black and the moon silver you will break a little more because there is no hope for resistance against the force that rips you apart and stitches you back together and then tears you again. But then, perhaps you will drift from consciousness with your brother's arms holding you together and perhaps you will breathe steadily as silver moonlight spills across black sheets.

**Peractio**


End file.
